


Blended Education

by luckie_dee



Category: Glee
Genre: Age Difference, Blangst, Hybrids, M/M, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 19:24:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4031728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckie_dee/pseuds/luckie_dee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When kitty!Blaine has to restart his high school career at Dalton Academy after being bullied out of public school, he's not sure what to expect... but it's definitely not meeting someone like Mr. Hummel, the coordinator of Dalton's Hybrid Student Services Center.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blended Education

**Author's Note:**

  * For [controlofwhatido](https://archiveofourown.org/users/controlofwhatido/gifts).



> **Warnings:** Hybrids (yes, kitty!Blaine – bear with me!), age difference (in this chapter, Kurt is 22 and Blaine is 15), teacher(ish)/student, Blangst, references to past violence/assault, homophobic and prejudiced slurs. Warnings will evolve in later chapters. 
> 
> **Author's Note:** Well. This was supposed to be a porny one-shot for [Lindsey's](http://controlofwhatido.tumblr.com/) birthday, but instead it developed into a monster multi-chapter thing with a plot (and eventually porn) for Lindsey's birthday. It's not finished, although significant parts of the next two chapters are. I don't usually post WIPs anymore, but I wanted to have something ready for Lindsey's actual day, and totally understand if anyone wants to wait to read. :)
> 
> Happy birthday (again) Lindsey! My life is better every day because you're in it and I'm honored to be able to call you my friend. ♥ Here's to 30 more years of fangirling together! Last but not least, huge thanks to [Sam](http://ticklishblaine.tumblr.com/) for the beta and to [Sadie](http://sadieesperanto.tumblr.com/) for finding the perfect song for Blaine to sing in this chapter!

On his first day at Dalton Academy, Blaine stands in his tiny dorm room and examines himself in the mirror hanging over the even tinier dresser. He looks... not awful, he thinks. Definitely much better than he feels, about to start classes — to start _over_ — at a new school because he’d been beaten out of the old one. Literally.

He likes the uniform well enough. The fabric is stiff and coarse, especially the blazer collar poking at his neck and the thick white shirt underneath, but it’s comfortable in other ways. Most notably, that it’s designed to accommodate his tail without being needlessly revealing or causing any odd bunching or wrinkling. 

Even more important, it makes him feel less like _that_ boy. He doesn’t even think he looks so much like _that_ boy, really, the scared catboy slinking around his public high school, or lying broken on the ground in the parking lot. He actually has grown a little, or so he hopes, and the boxy cut of the jacket makes him seem bigger too. He’s got his hair smoothed down neatly, something that he likes but had always caused too much trouble at his old school because of the way it makes his ears stand out. It shouldn’t matter here though; Dalton has a strict, no-tolerance, anti-bullying policy, and it’s the best school in the state for blended hybrid-human education. If Blaine can’t be himself here, he can’t be himself anywhere. 

He can’t help feeling a twinge of nerves though, and his ears droop a little while butterflies flutter in his stomach. It’s still a whole school full of new students — and he didn’t move in until late yesterday, so he missed all the orientation events in the afternoon, _thanks Cooper_ — and it’s a totally different curriculum, and he’ll be the oldest freshman by default, and he’s never lived away from home before. He frowns at his reflection.

His self-pity is interrupted by his phone buzzing and rattling suddenly on his desk, and Blaine jumps so hard he nearly leaves his feet, his heart knocking madly against his ribcage and his tail puffing out. He hurries to grab the phone and stop the alarm, acknowledging ruefully that it might be more than just a _twinge_ of nerves. There’s no time to calm them, though: if he doesn’t leave his room now, he’s going to be late for breakfast with his student mentor.

Blaine slings his messenger bag over his shoulder and heads for the door before he has the chance to worry about anything else.

*

His student mentor is another hybrid, of course, a junior catboy named Wes with fur that’s dark like Blaine’s but much sleeker. In the cafeteria, they both choose smoked salmon on toast with cream cheese, and Blaine kind of wants to laugh at how _obviously_ Dalton is catering to the feline among them, even though, well — he does love fish. It’s in his genes and he can’t deny it. Still, it feels _fake_ , somehow, cloying, and he’s stunned to find out that it’s standard fare. Blaine thinks he’s starting to realize just how different the world he’s been thrust into is. 

Wes chats with him easily while they eat, and he cuts up his food with a knife and a fork. Blaine is relieved that he doesn’t have to feel silly doing the same. It’s all going just fine until Wes asks, conversationally, “So, Blaine, what brings you to Dalton Academy?”

Blaine’s entire body stiffens and his tail swishes a few times before he schools it back into stillness, winding it around one leg of his chair. “I, um…” he starts, stabbing a bite of toast with his fork. “I —” 

He can feel Wes watching him, but doesn't kanow if it's because Wes is confused or concerned or laughing. “Blaine,” he finally interrupts Blaine’s stammering, though not unkindly, “it’s okay. You don’t _have_ to tell me if you don’t want to. Or if it wasn’t your choice to come to Dalton, that’s fine too. I think you’ll still grow to like it in time.”

 _Not his choice_. Blaine scoffs internally. It had been his research that had _found_ Dalton, and his weeks of begging and cajoling his parents that had gotten him here. “It’s not that. I — had some troubles in public school. The humans… weren’t kind.”

Wes nods sagely. “I’m sorry to hear that. I think that, unfortunately, as hybrids, we’ve all faced discrimination and biased opinions.” _Or fists and the painful connection of foot and ribs, over and over_ , Blaine thinks wryly. “I can guarantee that you won’t experience anything like that at Dalton.”

Blaine nods and tries to give Wes a polite smile, even though he can’t even lift his eyes from his plate. “Good. I’m glad.”

“Good,” Wes echoes. There’s a moment of silence that Blaine uses to pick at his plate, and then Wes speaks again, his voice full of false cheer. “Are you finished eating? We still have time for a quick tour before the assembly.”

“Yes,” Blaine says gratefully, setting down his fork. He clears his throat, strives for the polite tone he’d been using earlier. “Thank you.”

*

Blaine sits near the back of Dalton's huge auditorium during the assembly and peeks around at his fellow students instead of listening to the principal, noting the heads with pointed feline ears and those without. It’s a surprisingly even mix, and humans and hybrids alike are scattered throughout the seats. It’s a far cry from Blaine’s public school, where the catboys and catgirls had stuck together in a tight knot on one side of the room and the human boys and girls on the other, not by rule but by choice.

After the assembly comes a day of truncated classes, syllabuses, and a few first-day homework assignments. Wes finds Blaine at lunch, and they eat with a group of boys from the school’s show choir, who are all excited when Blaine tentatively admits that he loves to perform. At the extracurricular fair that kicks off when the final bell sounds, they descend on him again, and Blaine agrees to try out even though he’s not sure he wants to. He’s amused to find out that the group’s called the Warblers — a name, Wes explains, that’s been used since before human-animal hybrids were even a twinkle in anyone’s eye, and now it’s just ironic, a half-cat choir with a bird's name.

School starts in earnest the next day. Most classes are blended, but once a week, the hybrids are siphoned off for specialized instruction and discussion. There’s absolutely nothing like it in the public school curriculum, and it’s facilitated by a catwoman with graying fur at the base of her ears that matches her sensible, dove-gray suit with its knee-length skirt. She announces that they’ll spend the first half hour getting an introduction to the Hybrid Student Services Center. “And who better to give you an overview than our brand new HSSC Coordinator,” she says grandly, gesturing to the back of the room. “Class, say good morning to Mr. Hummel.”

Blaine opens his mouth to intone _good morning_ with everyone else, but instead, it just stays ajar as he catches sight of Mr. Hummel walking up the next aisle. Luckily, he manages to snap his jaw shut just in time as Mr. Hummel reaches the front of the room and turns to face them. 

_He’s young_ , Blaine things dumbly. _And hot_ chases quickly afterwards. Most of the adults that Blaine has encountered at Dalton are at least forty if not older, but not Mr. Hummel. He’s young and thin and tall, dressed in dark jeans and a trim suit jacket over a bright shirt, and ensemble that, as far as Blaine is aware, just _barely_ falls within the staff and faculty dress code. He’s got gravity-defying hair, but there are no feline ears for it to conceal. He’s fully human, and he’s the most beautiful man Blaine thinks he’s ever seen in real life. From the second row of desks, Blaine can scent his cologne.

He forces himself to lay his thoughts aside. It doesn’t matter — Mr. Hummel is a teacher, or if not a teacher exactly, then at least an _adult_ , and Blaine may be the oldest freshman in school, but he’s still just a kid, and his interest in other boys has never caused him anything but trouble anyway. 

“Good morning!” Mr. Hummel responds brightly to the students’ lackluster greeting. He claps his hands and smiles, and his _smile_. Blaine shakes himself again and focuses on what Mr. Hummel is actually saying, because as it turns out, it's information he actually wants to know.

Mr. Hummel is outlining the services available at the HSSC in a high, strong voice. There are counseling services to specifically aid hybrid issues, help with college searches and applications and scholarships, opportunities for political activism. 

And then, the most interesting thing of all: he's looking for student volunteers. “If you're interested in applying,” he says, looking around the room, smiling, and his eyes briefly meet Blaine's — Blaine inhales sharply and sits up, even as Mr. Hummel's gaze trips away and he continues scanning the room, “stop by any time!”

*

Blaine almost doesn't go. He's not even sure why he should — how is he supposed to help other hybrids, when he hadn't even been able to help himself? He can't quite get the thought out of his head, though.

When Blaine does walk into the HSSC, he’s surprised to find it decidedly less grand than he’d imagined. It’s ornate in the way that all of Dalton is ornate — oak flooring, thick crown molding — but like the rest of the school, the room is definitely showing its age. In fact, Blaine is pretty sure there’s more disrepair than in any of the classrooms he’s seen, and the smell of dusty hardwood is even thicker here, making his nose twitch. There’s a table set up on one side of the main room that appears to serve as a makeshift desk, although there isn’t anyone sitting there. On the opposite side of the room, a few ragged armchairs are stationed in front of two overflowing bookshelves. There’s a threadbare rug on the floor and, down a short hallway, three doors, all either closed or ajar.

Blaine shuffles awkwardly for a moment, adjusting his messenger bag against his hip. He catches sight of an index card taped to the top of the table with a cheerful message scrawled in black marker: _Please ring the bell if you need assistance! :)_

After one last glance down the hallway, Blaine reaches over. The _ding_ of the bell echoes too loudly in the stale air.

He pricks his ears toward the sounds of a chair scraping against hardwood, of feet shuffling, and then one of the doors swings open to reveal Mr. Hummel, a cell phone pressed to one ear. He offers Blaine a wave with his free hand and a tight-lipped grin, then motions that he’ll be just a minute. Blaine manages a nervous smile in return as his heart accelerates near-painfully in his chest. As Mr. Hummel ducks back through the door, Blaine crosses the room and peruses the spines of the books, not taking in a single word printed on any of them.

Mr. Hummel emerges again a few minutes later, _sans_ phone, hurrying out into the open room with a smile and a breathy, “Hi! Hello. I’m so sorry for making you wait. We don’t have our volunteer staff in place yet this year, so I’m wearing all the HSSC hats at the moment. They’re all fabulous, I assure you.” He pauses for breath and sticks out a hand. “Is this your first time here? I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Blaine blinks, pulling himself back from staring in awe as the melody of Mr. Hummel’s voice washed over him. Mr. Hummel is even better looking up close, so much so that Blaine almost feels intimidated by it, but he makes himself respond. “Hi, Mr. Hummel. Um, no. No, we haven’t,” he stammers. “My name is Blaine Anderson. I’m —” and he can’t bring himself to say _a freshman_ , he just _can’t_ “— new here.” He takes Mr. Hummel’s hand to shake, embarrassed that his own palm is sweating a little.

Mr. Hummel doesn’t give any sign that he notices or cares. “Pleased to meet you, Blaine. My name is Kurt, and you’re welcome to call me that if you want. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

He can’t imagine calling Mr. Hummel _Kurt_ , but Blaine warms a little because he likes knowing it all the same. “Of course.”

“So, what brings you here today, Blaine?” Mr. Hummel asks, leading him over to the set of armchairs. They each perch on one, and Mr. Hummel fixes him with a patient stare. 

Blaine zones out for a few seconds more, and he brings himself back to reality by briefly, roughly clearing his throat. He snakes the tip of his tail under the skirt of the chair and wraps it lightly around one leg. “I was hoping I could volunteer here, actually. I came to pick up an application?”

Mr. Hummel’s face lights up. “That’s great! I’m really excited about getting our student volunteers more involved.” He’s up and out of his seat, and he crosses the room with an enthusiastic spring in his step. “Mr. Digacamo did a great job establishing the HSSC, don’t get me wrong, but one of my top priorities this year is working with our students more,” he continues as he retrieves a folder and a clipboard from the table-desk. “That’s where the change is going to come from, right? Young people like you.” He drops back down into the chair across from Blaine’s and passes him an application. He’s beaming, but then he chuckles, looking abashed. “I’m sorry; I’m babbling. I’m just really excited to be here.”

Blaine can’t help but smile back. “It’s okay. I think that’s — really great,” he finishes lamely.

“Do you want to fill that out now?” Mr. Hummel asks. He holds up the clipboard. “I’ll be here until five-thirty. Or you can take it with you and bring it back when you’re done.”

“I’ll stay,” Blaine says quickly. He can feel a blush creeping up his cheeks, and he ducks his head to begin writing.

“Take your time.” At the edge of his vision, Blaine sees Mr. Hummel’s legs straighten as he stands. “I’ll be in my office. Feel free to come on down when you’re done, or if you have any questions. First door on the left.”

Blaine nods. “Thank you, Mr. Hummel.”

Mr. Hummel’s footsteps retreat, and Blaine continues working his way down the application. The beginning is easy — name, student ID, grade — but the further he gets, the more he wonders if he should have filled it out on his own time. He stares numbly down at questions like _Why are you interested in volunteering at the Hybrid Student Services Center?_ and _Do you have any special talents, skills, experience, or training that you can apply to volunteer work at the HSSC?_

No one at Dalton knows about his history yet, other than the Dean of Admissions who’d made an exception to consider Blaine’s application, submitted two weeks past the deadline. Some of them might have heard about him in the news, but another catboy being bullied had made barely more than a blip on the radar, even though the incident had landed Blaine in the hospital. 

Blaine doesn’t know what to do, but at the same time, he doesn't think it would reflect well on his chances of being selected if he were to change his mind and just _leave_ , so he sets his jaw and works doggedly down the page, answering honestly and carefully, filling the lines neatly with blue ink. He doesn’t reread anything when he’s done, just jumps to his feet and moves quickly toward Mr. Hummel’s office, his tail twitching behind him. 

“Mr. Hummel?” he asks, accompanying himself with a tentative knock on the door frame. The office is small but artistically attired with pictures and decorations between the books on the shelves, a large framed photograph of what looks like someone’s collarbone, and creative uses of draped fabric. Mr. Hummel is sitting at the desk, writing on a notepad. 

He glances up with another friendly smile. “Are you all set?”

“All set,” Blaine replies, falsely cheerful. He all but throws the sheet of paper at Mr. Hummel, glad to have the ugly story out of his hands. He starts edging away immediately. “Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ ,” Mr. Hummel says. He puts the paper on his desk, pats it with one hand. “I’m looking forward to reviewing your application. We’ll be making our final decisions by a week from Friday.”

“Sounds good.” Blaine continues moving back toward the main room as he speaks. “Thanks again, Mr. Hummel.”

He turns and strides away as Mr. Hummel calls, “Have a great afternoon, Blaine!” after him.

*

Blaine hurries back to his room, nodding tersely at the few people who greet him. Behind the safety of his door, he drops his bookbag, yanks off his blazer and necktie, and loosens his collar with rough movements that nearly take the buttons off. He sinks to the edge of his bed, shaking, and buries his hands in his hair, pressing the tips of them into the softer fur at the base of his ears. His breath comes in harsh shudders as he remembers, remembers, remembers. The jeers and the taunts and the threats in the hallways, both called out and whispered, the second kind somehow seeming worse. Being pushed to the ground — you _pussy_ — scuffing and scraping against the pavement, the blooming pain each time he was kicked, the dark air and the throbbing stars behind his eyes. 

Slowly, he lowers his head until it’s between his knees, trying to breathe more deeply. He shouldn’t have put all of that on his application. He’s supposed to be starting over at Dalton, breaking free from the chains of his past and becoming a better version of himself. And now Mr. Hummel is going to want to talk to him about it, and he’ll have to dwell on it even more than he already has, and what use is he going to be to anyone else anyway? At least the HSSC will have to keep his information confidential, right?

Without even sitting up, Blaine rolls back onto his bed and curls up into a ball, tucking his knees up almost under his chin and curling his tail over his legs. He tries to do some of the breathing exercises he’d looked up online, and eventually he does start to feel calmer. The buzzing in his head starts to recede, slowly seeping away as he realizes how _exhausted_ he is, not only from that afternoon but from the combined stress of the entire first week, and he falls into a fitful sleep. 

*

Blaine feels residually rattled for the next few days, but he tries to put the whole thing out of his head. He starts thinking — kind of hoping, actually — that the whole thing will just blow over. It’s not like his application is going to get selected; he doesn’t have relevant experience, or anything else to offer in terms of helping other students. 

Other than the hiccup with the HSSC, being at Dalton is — not terrible. It’s definitely a huge step up from the hybrid hell on earth that was the Westerville Public School System. The course work is harder, but Blaine actually doesn’t mind that very much. He might change his mind in time, but for now, challenging trumps boring. 

He keeps largely to himself, but thanks to Wes, he always has a seat with the Warblers at lunch if he wants it. Blaine’s not sure how long that’s gong to last if he isn’t chosen to join, but he takes the opportunity to sound out a few of the guys about what kind of song he should choose for his audition. He’s been singing and accompanying himself on the piano for as long as he can remember, but he doesn’t have any clue how to try out for a show choir. He’s surprised when his innocent questions spur a debate that lasts for most of the lunch hour, but from it, he gathers that he should choose a standard or something from Broadway.

Later that evening, after he’s done with his homework, Blaine starts scrolling through his music library. Some things he’s able to dismiss quickly (Katy Perry, Maroon 5, everything else that had been in the top 40 in the past ten years, Bryan Ferry) and some he lingers on but eventually rejects (a few Sinatra numbers that don’t seem to have the right amount of gravitas, selections from _Les Mis_ that have too _much_ ). He hums a few lines here, gives voice to a few others there — but nothing seems quite _right_. 

Until he skips forward again and hears a few poignant bars of music and, “ _You fold his hands, you smooth his tie_ …”

He listens through the whole song, but he knows before the first verse ends that he’s found what he was looking for. 

*

On audition day, Blaine sits in a row of chairs at the back of one of the common rooms, along with a handful of other boys and catboys, mostly underclassmen by the looks of it. His heart is already beating a quick tattoo in his chest, there’s a sheen of sweat building up under the suddenly-too-heavy fabric of his uniform, and his tail is curled securely around his chair leg. He’d expected to be nervous, but not _this_ nervous. He doesn’t really think there’s any reason for it: he’d rehearsed the song so many times over the past few days that he’s pretty sure he could perform it on autopilot, even the key change at the end. He’d sung in front of rooms full of people before.

But never without some kind of background music, at least not since he was a tiny kittenboy warbling shakily along to _Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star_ and the alphabet song, which both had the same melody anyway. And never when the stakes were this high: sing well and you’re in, hit a few bum notes and you’re out. Blaine’s not even sure when or why he started caring so much.

He waits as patiently as possible while Wes reads the rules and procedures — for those who are auditioning, for the Council members who’ll be judging them, even for the Warblers who are just watching. He’s more formal and strict than usual, and he punctuates his words with bangs of a gavel that make Blaine jump minutely in his seat. He finally wraps up his announcements with a tense smile at the line of waiting boys and a, “Best of luck to you all. Number one, please take the floor and state your name and grade.” 

They’ve drawn numbers to determine the singing order, and Blaine isn’t sure if his position about two-thirds of the way through the lineup is good or bad. On one hand, he gets to watch several auditions before his own, but on the other, he has to _wait_. He thinks the boys before him sound good-not-great, but he’s not sure that he’s going to sound all that great either. His number is called, and his heart jumps into his throat — not very conducive to singing, he thinks wryly, as he takes his place in the center of the room and announces, his voice barely shaking at all, “Blaine Anderson, freshman.” 

He may just be imagining it, but he thinks Wes’s mouth quirks up a little as he says, “Thank you, Blaine. What song will you be performing today?”

“[‘Left Behind’ from _Spring Awakening_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DBX6Rvd831c),” Blaine replies. He clasps his hands behind his back and forces his ears to be politely alert, his tail to hang still behind him. 

Wes and the other members of the Council — two senior boys that Blaine doesn’t know well at all — nod approvingly. “Whenever you’re ready,” Wes instructs, “you may proceed.” 

Blaine nods and closes his eyes. He tries to block out the feeling of so many people staring at him, to hear the first few lines of the song in his head like he’s playing them in his dorm room. He takes a deep breath. Begins.

The first two verses come out all right, he thinks, his eyes coming open as he sings, even though he doesn’t look directly at anyone in the room. He sounds a little tentative, maybe, and he continues into the first chorus with more strength. Something strange is happening, though, and the wistful emotion of the song is getting all tangled up with his words in a way it never had when he’d been memorizing the song alone in his room. The character is singing about someone who died, Blaine knows, but he’s not sure who he’s singing for. Himself, maybe, even though he’s still alive, parts of himself that have fallen away or gone dormant since the optimistic joy of his childhood, parts of himself that had been kicked out of place in that parking lot — and his voice unexpectedly cracks on “ _and all of the crying you wouldn’t understand, you just let him cry, make a man out of him_.” 

Blaine is horrified — he’s blowing his chance — and he tries to reel it back in, but somehow he can’t, and the emotion builds on itself, the anxiety and the regret and the fear and the sadness, and he realizes that he sounds almost angry as he sings, “ _all the fears that flickered through his mind, all the sadness that he’d come to own_ ,” and that’s not right for the song, is it? He finishes the last few notes blinking back tears, huffs out a breath, and pulls himself together to issue a terse “thank you” as he turns to take his seat again. 

There’s a quick-fire smattering of polite applause (as permitted by the guidelines for audition attendees) that, to Blaine’s ears, doesn’t sound any different from any of the others. Well, he hadn’t hit too many sour notes, at least, so maybe that’s deserving of applause. 

When he’s seated again and the clapping stops, Wes looks at him and actually smiles, polite but genuine. “Thank you, Blaine. Number twelve, please take the floor.”

Blaine sags into his chair. Maybe it hadn’t been so bad after all. When everyone is done, a few of the other guys who tried out even compliment him on his audition — but maybe it’s just civility, because he returns the courtesy, even though he can’t even remember what anyone else sang. He leaves the auditions feeling buoyant with relief and cautiously optimistic.

And then, back in his room, Blaine checks his email, and his heart almost stops when he sees a message from **Kurt Hummel**. It’s simple and to the point and terrifying:

_Blaine,_

_Thank you so much for submitting an application to volunteer at the Hybrid Student Service Center this school year! I would like to further discuss the information you provided. Please let me know when you’re available for a 20-30 minute conversation._

_Best,_  
Kurt Hummel  
HSSC Coordinator | Dalton Academy 

*

A few days later, Blaine is back in the doorway to Mr. Hummel’s office. He shifts his weight anxiously from one foot to the other and raises one hand to tap on the door frame, even though Mr. Hummel is already looking up, his lips tilting into a welcoming smile. “Blaine, hi! Please, come in and have a seat.” 

Blaine steps over the threshold and, after a seconds hesitation, eases the door shut. The HSSC is, again, deserted, but he can’t bear the idea that someone might come in and overhear something. Mr. Hummel just keeps smiling at him placidly, so Blaine releases the knob and takes a seat. “Hi.”

Mr. Hummel sifts through several neat stacks of paper on his desk , unearthing a file folder. When he flips it open, Blaine sees his own volunteer application, and he glances down, feeling some of the blood drain from his face. “Blaine —” Mr. Hummel starts, and then he pauses for a moment. “Thank you so much for applying. I imagine that this wasn’t easy for you to fill out.”

“No, Mr. Hummel,” Blaine mumbles. He can feel the weight of Mr. Hummel watching him carefully, but he doesn’t look up. 

The silence hangs heavy in the air, and then Mr. Hummel says, “You are clearly an exceptional young man.”

Blaine’s shocked eyes fly up to search Mr. Hummel’s face. “What?” 

Mr. Hummel catches his gaze, holds it. “I mean it, Blaine. It clearly took a lot of courage for you to share your story, and it’s wonderful that you want to take your experience and use it to help other students. I think that’s remarkably admirable.” 

“Thank you,” Blaine says quietly. He flutters a little, somewhere small and deep down inside, but it’s there and it glows like a coal gone to embers. 

He feels one side of his mouth tick up, and Mr. Hummel gives him a reassuring smile in return. He closes Blaine’s folder and folds his hands over it. “I don’t usually do this in person,” he continues, “but I’m thrilled to invite you to volunteer with the HSSC this year.”

Blaine blinks at him. It’s exactly what he’d wanted to hear, but suddenly his head is all tangled up with his _story_ and _his experience_ and Mr. Hummel’s quiet confidence when he has no _idea_ what he’s doing. “I — I’m honored to be selected,” he finally replies. “But…”

Mr. Hummel frowns. “But what?” His hands are frozen in midair, already in the process of pulling out a sheaf of papers that had been tucked behind Blaine’s application in the folder. 

“I don’t know if I should,” Blaine admits. 

“What makes you say that?” Mr. Hummel asks.

Blaine takes a deep breath. He’s about to demur, make up some excuse about focusing on settling into a new school and taking time to get used to the new curriculum — but Mr. Hummel’s eyes are serious and concerned, his whole face is _radiating_ concern, and Blaine suddenly feels like his arms are shaking and weak under a weight that he’s been carrying for miles. He slumps a little in his chair and starts again. “I don’t — have anything to — to offer. I mean, I have no idea how to help anyone else. I’m just a kid who got beat up once. That’s not anything special. It’s probably happened to every catboy here, and some of the humans too.” His tail curls more tightly around the chair leg as he talks.

Mr. Hummel doesn’t respond right away, and when Blaine hazards a glance at him, he looks thoughtful and troubled. “I disagree with you,” he says. His voice is still gentle, but there’s a sudden, steely edge of conviction. “Maybe it’s not unique that you faced prejudice because you’re a hybrid — although I think you faced it at an extreme level. What _is_ special is the fact that you’re choosing to take the pain that you went through and turn it into something positive. Something that helps other people.”

“I don’t know _how_ to help other people,” Blaine protests. “I don’t even want to tell anyone else about all of this. I can’t, Mr. Hummel, I _can’t_ —” 

“Blaine,” Mr. Hummel interrupts him. “You don’t have to. I would never to ask you to disclose something so personal. You would help just by being here and contributing to keeping the Center running smoothly. I’ll teach you everything you need to know. And this is new for all of us! We’re all going to learn together. I’m new here too, remember?” 

Blaine’s lips quirk into a weak approximation of a smile. “Yes, Mr. Hummel.”

“So, what do you say?” Mr. Hummel says. He lifts the papers again, flashes Blaine a grin. “Can we count on your help this year?” When Blaine doesn’t answer right away, he adds, “Please consider giving it a try, at least. It’s a volunteer position, not a blood oath. You can always change your mind if you decide it’s not for you.”

“You really want me to?” Blaine asks shyly. “Even after —” he waves a hand “—all this?”

“ _Especially_ after all this. All you’re doing right now is proving to me that you should be here, because your concerns show that you’re very thoughtful and take this opportunity very seriously. I already knew I made the right choice in approving your application, and now I’m sure of it.”

Blaine feels like he’s blushing, and he realizes suddenly how close he is to actually crying despite the smile playing around his lips. “Thank you, Mr. Hummel. I’d be honored to volunteer. Or at least to try.” 

Mr. Hummel grins and passes him the paperwork.

*

Blaine feels skittish as he heads to the HSSC after class one day for volunteer orientation. He walks through the halls light on his feet, his tail twitching, and he jumps to the side when someone unexpectedly slams a locker nearby. He doesn’t even understand where all the nerves are coming from. At the door, he takes a deep breath, drawing the dusty smell of the school down to his toes, and then he enters quickly, clutching the strap of his book bag in both hands.

Several seats have been positioned around the armchairs at the side of the room — a few desk chairs on wheels and two unforgiving wooden folding chairs — and there are a handful of other students scattered there, a few hybrids and a few humans. There’s no one Blaine recognizes, but they all look up to greet him politely. Blaine murmurs a quiet _hi_ and moves to perch uneasily on one of the folding chairs. The others go back to talking, and Blaine listens and waits.

Luckily, it’s not long before Mr. Hummel appears with a stack of papers in his hands. “I’m sorry, everyone! The copier jammed with only two copies left to go. I wish I could say that was a rare occurrence. Oh, Blaine! You made it.” He pauses to shoot Blaine a smile. “I’m so glad. Now that we’re all here, let’s get started.” Mr. Hummel passes out papers as he speaks, and when he’s done, he takes a seat on the chair across from Blaine. “I’d like to start out by having everyone here introduce themselves. I know we have a few new faces joining us this year, including me. Does anyone want to start? I’m not afraid to call on you if you don’t, remember, and I’d like everyone to share at least their name.”

Blaine hunches into his seat a little and looks down at his hands, but to his surprise, one of the older students starts talking right away. Over the course of the next few minutes, Blaine learns that not only is he the only freshman volunteer, but that all of the others are passionate about volunteering and at least adequately articulate. They know and voice their support for political issues, or they want to become teachers or counselors. And then there’s Blaine who’s here because — well, he’s not really sure why he’s here. 

When it’s his turn, he stammers out his name and says, “I um — I decided to volunteer because as a hybrid, I want to… be a part of making Dalton the best place in the state for hybrids to go to school.” It’s vague and uninteresting and not even worded well, but when Blaine’s eyes flicker up to Mr. Hummel after he’s done speaking, Mr. Hummel gives him a reassuring smile. 

It’s a relief when the introductions are over, and Blaine listens with much more interest as Mr. Hummel describes the projects that he hopes to undertake with the volunteers’ help. He enlists the help of two upperclassmen to create a plan for making outreaches to hybrid-friendly colleges and universities, both to stockpile materials and to make connections. “A friendly word from a guidance counselor can work wonders sometimes,” he explains. 

Another few students sign up to develop ways to keep students abreast of hybrid-related news items. “I know a newsletter comes right to mind,” Mr. Hummel says, “but I’m definitely open to other suggestions. Be creative!” 

Lastly, Mr. Hummel describes a more immediate project — organizing and cataloging the books on the sagging shelves. “We’ll also need to devise a system to lend them out,” he finishes, then looks up, right at Blaine. “I thought this might be a good project for you, Blaine, while you get acclimated to Dalton and to the HSSC. What do you say?”

“I was — just about to volunteer,” Blaine replies truthfully, flushing a little under the attention. “I’d be happy to work on that.” 

Mr. Hummel beams. “Great! I’ll touch base with you during your first shift so we can go over the details.” 

“Okay,” Blaine says, warm and flustered. 

Mr. Hummel outlines a few plans for later in the year, and then they all work together to fill in a schedule for manning the HSSC — and Blaine, as the newest and proudest member of the Dalton Academy Warblers, makes sure that none of his time slots interfere with rehearsals. 

His first shift takes place the following Wednesday. For once, he’s _excited_ on his way to the HSSC instead of nervous, although the twisting in his stomach feels kind of the same. He arrives to find Mr. Hummel greeting Kieran, one of the senior volunteers. “Oh, just a minute — Blaine, hey! All ready for your first day of indentured servitude?”

Blaine grins. “Absolutely, Mr. Hummel.” He drops his bag on the table-desk just inside the door and gestures toward the bookshelves. “Should I just —?”

“Wait just a second,” Mr. Hummel says. “I’m going to get Kieran set up with the computer and the phone in the spare office. Sit tight and I’ll be right back out.”

“Okay,” Blaine agrees. He exchanges friendly nods with Kieran as he disappears into one of the doors off the short hallway, and then meanders across the room to look over the books again. They’re in no certain order, he notices upon closer inspection, some lined up neatly, some balanced across the tops of other spines, some just stacked in piles. There’s even a half-full carton on the floor housing a few more that won’t fit on the shelves at all.

He keeps one ear swiveled back toward the hallway, but he still jumps a little when Mr. Hummel calls his name. “Devising your plan of attack?” he asks, as Blaine skitters back across the room. 

“Starting to,” Blaine replies. He hovers awkwardly for a moment and Mr. Hummel gestures for him to sit. 

“That’s good,” Mr. Hummel says, pulling up another chair and setting a notebook on the table between them, “because I’d love to hear your ideas about what we should do to organize our library.” 

He looks up at Blaine, waiting, and Blaine’s mind — goes blank. Mr. Hummel’s gaze, so blue and close, is mesmerizing, but it’s more than just that. He’s suddenly afraid that he’s going to say the wrong thing and watch a veil of disappointment slip over those eyes. And then Mr. Hummel will realize that Blaine really _isn’t_ the right choice to work in the HSSC after all and he’ll be dismissed before ten minutes are even up. “I, um… I haven’t — well, it’s really your idea, so I thought maybe you would have ideas about what you want me to do.”

Blaine feels clumsy and inelegant and every one of his meager fifteen years, but Mr. Hummel just smiles patiently at him. “I do. But part of my job here is to help students build their skills and confidence, and that’s not going to happen if I just order you around. I’d love to hear your ideas.”

“Oh,” Blaine says. He glances down, then back up. “I don’t — I don’t _actually_ have a plan of attack. I’m sorry — I should have given it more thought, but —”

“Blaine,” Mr. Hummel interrupts him, still wearing the same pleasant, unruffled expression. “It’s okay. Let’s talk through it together. What do you think we should do first?”

Blaine glances across the room, eyeing the bookshelves again. “Well,” he says thoughtfully, and it’s easier when he’s not staring directly into Mr. Hummel’s eyes, “the books aren't in order, so I think organizing them should be the first step.” 

“That sounds good,” Mr. Hummel says, jotting a few things on the notepad. “How do you think we should organize them? What would be most useful for you, as a student, if you were to come in to look for something?” 

“By subject,” Blaine responds immediately, and Mr. Hummel nods, takes more notes. “I think there are too many to just put them in alphabetical order. But alphabetize them within each subject.”

Mr. Hummel looks up at him with a grin. “I agree. I’m glad to know we’re on the same page. See? You’ve got great ideas — you just need to give yourself time to think of them.” 

Blaine flushes at the praise and swivels his ears away in the hopes that it doesn’t look like he’s listening to it so closely. “I guess I’ll, um, work on that first then. Are there any boxes around that I could use? I don’t want to mess up the whole room with piles of books.” 

With a chuckle, Mr. Hummel shuts the notebook. “You’re always so conscientious, Blaine. But don’t worry about that — if we need to make stacks of books, we’ll make stacks of books. I think we do have a few boxes around — I’ll see if I can find them. If you need more, we can try the administrative offices. Why don’t you get started in the meantime? And think about what our next steps should be after you’re done sorting.” 

“Yes, Mr. Hummel,” Blaine says, climbing to his feet, smiling because he can’t help it, his face still hot. “I’m — I’m really excited about this. And just… glad to be working here.”

“I’m glad you’re here too,” Mr. Hummel replies, and Blaine knows that _of course_ he would say that, but he practically floats to the bookshelves all the same. 

*

Over the next few weeks, Blaine gradually realizes that he’s kind of — happy. Or at least bordering on it. Almost all the time. He falls asleep more easily and has fewer bad dreams. The counseling that Mr. Hummel had recommended helps, of course, but it’s more than that. He’s surprised to find that he just _likes_ being at Dalton. 

Rehearsals with the Warblers are intense but fun. Blaine can read music just fine, by virtue of the piano lessons he’d started almost before he was old enough to remember them. It’s easy enough to translate it over to his own voice, but he has to get used to singing in a group, singing harmonies, singing while doing choreography (mostly step-touch choreography, but still). Wes wastes no time in beginning the indoctrination of the new members of the group; he sets up meetings with each of them to discuss the Warblers’ history, code of conduct, and potential song selections for the year’s competitions… and then he distributes thick binders that contain the same information.

Blaine learns — a lot, in that hour in the cafeteria over steaming cups of warm milk, and it goes far beyond the storied past of the choir. He learns that Wes is only the eighth student in Warblers' history to be chosen as head of the Warbler Council as a junior, and the first hybrid. He learns that the Council operates independently, with very little oversight from the Warblers’ faculty advisor. 

Who is Mr. Hummel. That might be the most interesting thing that Blaine learns.

“But,” he asks tentatively, “Mr. Hummel isn’t technically faculty, is he?”

“It’s true that he’s not a teacher,” Wes agrees, “but an exception was made because he was a member of a show choir national champion when he himself was in high school.” 

Blaine’s ears twitch forward with interest. “Really? Mr. Hummel sings?”

Wes nods. “You’ll probably hear him at the annual holiday concert. He sang with us last year. He’s a countertenor, so his range is truly impressive.”

Instantly, Blaine wants to know more, like what did he sing, and what did he wear, and did anyone take video? He makes a mental note to check YouTube later — _or not, because that’s creepy_ — and tries to sound the proper amounts impressed and disinterested as he says, “Wow. Then I hope he does.” Blaine takes a sip of his steamer. Pauses. Then asks, “Why hasn’t he been at any of our rehearsals?”

“It’s tradition for the Warblers to be a self-sustaining organization under the guidance of the Council,” Wes says immediately, with a little edge to his voice like _Blaine you should know this already_ , and oops, maybe he should after the intense review of the past forty-five minutes. “Our faculty advisor is only involved in cases of extreme emergency or discord. He will also accompany us to competitions, where an adult coach or advisor is required. Haven’t you been paying attention, Blaine?”

“Of course,” Blaine mutters. “It’s just — it’s a lot of information to take in all at once.”

“I understand. Don’t worry,” Wes reassures him stiffly. “It’ll all be a lot more clear after the second time you read through the binder. Let’s move on to this year’s competition schedule, shall we?”

Although Blaine’s relationship with Wes remains friendly but aloof, he thinks he’s actually starting to strike up friendships with some of the other Warblers. It starts with a quiet, round-faced catboy named Trent with wide brown-furred ears, another freshman who Blaine vaguely remembers exchanging pleasantries with the day of auditions. They’re in the same algebra class, and they end up comparing notes one day after practice. They sit next to each other at lunch a few days later and have a side conversation about the Buckeyes’ chances against the rest of the Big 10. They practice their choreography next to each other at rehearsal so that they can figure out how they’re supposed to hold their tails. And it occurs to Blaine suddenly that he’s making a _friend_. He’s not sure he’s had a real friend since his playground days, when no one cared who had ears and a tail.

There are others too: Nick and Jeff, an inseparable pair even though Jeff is a hybrid and Nick is not, and Thad, a sophomore catboy with a ropelike tail who takes a sudden, almost alarming interest in becoming friends with Blaine after about half a dozen rehearsals. 

The whole group is cordial, and they tend to stick together, even outside of school and practice. Blaine eschews the first few invitations they extend, but Wes stops him on the way out of the dining hall one Saturday morning, and invites him to attend a field hockey scrimmage that afternoon. Dalton, Blaine learns, shares its athletic fields with its sister school, Crawford County Day, and the students often attend each other’s sporting events. Blaine tries to beg off, claiming homework, but Wes and the others with him — including the senior members of the Council — very politely won’t hear of it.

Which is how Blaine finds himself amidst a crowd of boys, most of them teeming with energy because they get to spend the afternoon awkwardly mingling and flirting with the girls on the sidelines while they watch _other_ girls run around the field in shorts. Blaine doesn’t echo their enthusiasm, of course, but he doesn’t volunteer the news that he’s gay either. He doesn’t _think_ it’s going to be a problem, but he can still hear it, _pussy fag_ , in the hall, in his ears, in the dark. The testosterone is high as the Dalton students troop out to the field, and Blaine almost feels bad for the girls, until he sees how excited they are for the event too.

Blaine hangs back on the bleachers, mostly keeping to himself in the middle of rings of chattering groups of boys, but occasionally dropping a few works into conversations here and there. Some of the other Dalton boys don’t leave the bleachers either, and Blaine’s not sure if that means that they’re gay too, or if they have girlfriends elsewhere, or if they’re shy, or something else entirely. 

It’s a nice day out: sunny and comfortable with just the slightest cool edge to the wind. Blaine can scent drying leaves in the air, and the afternoon sun soaks into the fur on his ears and warms his skin underneath. Suddenly, to his surprise, he realizes that he’s purring: it’s ragged, and so quiet that even the boys sitting closest to him probably can’t hear it, but it’s there, vibrating in his chest and his throat. He’s so startled at first that it stops for a minute, but then Blaine assesses himself, his comfort, the fresh air and the peace and the ease, and he lets it start up again. He's not sure he can remember the last time he'd spontaneously started purring.

All in all, it’s not a bad way to spend an afternoon.

Working at the HSSC makes Blaine happy too, and as much as he tries to deny it, part of that _is_ because of Mr. Hummel, and _not_ just because he’s still got a ridiculous crush that he tries to tamp down every time he feels it rearing its ugly, completely inappropriate head. After a month and a half, Mr. Hummel means more to Blaine than just a silly schoolboy fantasy. His steady confidence in Blaine is a buoy, and Blaine can feel himself opening like a slow-blooming flower under Mr. Hummel’s watchful attention. 

The library project isn’t even that complicated, but with each step that Blaine proposes and completes, he feels more self-assured, more like _himself_ and less like nervous, public school Blaine. He sorts through the books, organizes and labels them, and catalogs them all on spreadsheets. It’s his idea to track the conditions of the books, and Mr. Hummel praises him for it. Blaine drafts a policy for students who wants to check out books, and Mr. Hummel revises it. They talk about it, heads leaning towards each other as they bend over the pages on the table; the scent of Mr. Hummel’s cologne flooding Blaine’s nose, and he has to tamp down on his not-a-crush _really, really hard_. 

*

If Blaine had thought that Warblers' rehearsals were strenuous before, it's nothing compared to the weeks leading up to Sectionals. Practices increase from one per week to two, then three. Blaine's pretty sure the entire choir could perform the three numbers they have planned if they were all collectively knocked unconscious. 

He's nervous boarding the bus, and he feels kind of silly about it. He's all background vocals, and he's pretty sure he sleep-walked his choreography the night before. But what if he sees the audience and blanks? What if he flubs his steps and sings off key and hits everyone with his tail and is _single-handedly responsible_ for the Warblers' lowest competition ranking in seventeen years? 

Blaine flumps down into a seat, next to Trent and across from Nick and Jeff. He knows that he's probably not going to screw up that badly, but still, he thinks he'll feel better once the competition is all over and he actually doesn't. He's quiet and withdrawn during the drive, and when Mr. Hummel turns around to give them all a quick pep talk, all Blaine can do is offer a watery smile in response.

He feels sick waiting in the audience, and he feels sick waiting in the wings, and the moment that they're in silent, still formation on the darkened stage is probably the worst. But then the lights come up and the performance starts and something unexpected happens.

Blaine... _loves_ it.

All the anxiety rolls itself into a ball and explodes in a burst of energy, and the excitement of the crowd is infectious, and Blaine can't stop _grinning_ as he spins and step-touches his way through their opening number. He finishes the set flushed and breathing heavy and beaming out at the audience. Everything is kind of a blur in front of his eyes, but somehow he does see it when Mr. Hummel jumps immediately to his feet in the third row, applauding enthusiastically, then shooting them a discreet thumbs-up.

And he meets Blaine's gaze, for just a moment, and his smile deepens. Blaine _swears_ it.

*

The Warblers’ Holiday Spectacular is held on the last evening before the campus is closed for the long break that lasts until after New Year’s. They’re all warming up backstage, immaculate in freshly pressed uniforms and, by turns, Santa hats and reindeer antlers affixed to headbands. Blaine is shocked that so much whimsy is allowed. He’s alternating between bouncing on his toes and running scales when Mr. Hummel turns up, and Blaine drops back to his heels, falls silent, and gulps. 

Mr. Hummel greets the Council members first, and Blaine is glad, because it gives him the chance to both stare unnoticed and fix his slack jaw. He’s never seen Mr. Hummel _really_ dressed up — not that he doesn’t look fantastic every day — and it’s a sight to behold: perfectly tailored trousers, a crisp white shirt, a waistcoat in rich red, and a festive ascot. His hair is surprisingly less immaculate than usual, a fact that Blaine understands much more when he sees Wes pass Mr.Hummel a hat of his own — specifically, a top hat with a sprig of holly affixed to the band. Mr. Hummel laughs and dons it.

When Mr. Hummel turns to away from Wes, Blaine quickly begins stretching and vocalizing again, focusing on some distant spot on the wall. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Mr. Hummel make his way across the backstage area, greeting and checking in with various Warblers as he goes. “Hey, Mr. Hummel!” Blaine calls out when he gets close enough, aiming for a _this-is-my-perfectly-normal-tone-of-voice_ tone of voice. 

“Hi, Blaine,” Mr. Hummel responds. He gestures to the reindeer antlers Blaine is wearing with a grin. “You look like you’re all ready to go. Which one are you? Not Rudolph any more, I hope.”

Blaine chuckles, and suddenly the plastic headband digging into scalp doesn’t bother him nearly as much as it had before. “Oh no, I feel much better now, thank you. Maybe Prancer? I’ve got my step-touch down pat.” He demonstrates, one step, two, and finishes with a snap and a spin on the ball of one foot, tucking his tail up tight against his back so it doesn’t sail away from his body. 

Mr. Hummel laughs and gives him a few appreciative claps. “Oh, you’re definitely ready,” he says, and then pauses, still smiling. Sounding more serious, he adds, “It’s wonderful to see you so happy, Blaine.”

“I — oh,” Blaine stammers, suddenly flustered, ducking his head. He doesn’t know how to respond and finally settles on, “Thank you. It’s nice to — be happy.”

There’s a fleeting touch to one of his shoulders, and then a squeeze, and Blaine jumps, only looking back up in time to see Mr. Hummel pulling his hand away. “Break a leg out there,” he says. 

Blaine feels gawky, and awkward, and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. In desperation, he clasps them behind his back. “Thank you. Um, you too.”

“I’ll see you out there,” Mr. Hummel says, stepping away as Wes starts rounding the Warblers up for their entrance.

*

The concert goes off without a hitch. They sound fantastic on the traditional carols like “O Tannenbaum” and “Silent Night.” They have more fun with “We Need a Little Christmas” and get the audience singing along with some more upbeat, familiar numbers. Blaine is having an _awesome_ time: all the fun of performance without the stress of competition, the camaraderie, not just of the Warblers, but of everyone in the room having fun together. 

All of it is wonderful, but the best part is hearing Mr. Hummel sing. 

It’s “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” with simple background vocals from the senior members of the choir. As much as Blaine wishes he were singing along, he’s almost happier to be listening, his eyes luminous, his ears angled to catch every note, his heart aching with the lyrics and the clarity of Mr. Hummel’s voice. 

Okay, okay. This is a crush. It's okay though. It doesn't have to _mean_ anything.

*

Spending almost two weeks at home for the holidays is... interminable. Cooper flies in for a whirlwind less-than-seventy-two hours, and other than that it's Blaine and his parents and their stilted conversation, or Blaine by himself in their huge, empty house. He exchanges some texts and emails with his new friends, but they're busy with their families. 

It's actually a relief to go back to school, even though most of January is lost to frantic studying for midterms, and frantic rehearsals for Regionals, which the Warblers lose soundly to Vocal Adrenaline. It's disappointing, especially for the seniors, but as soon as they board the bus for a subdued ride back to Dalton, Blaine already can't wait to start the competition cycle again the next year. He's definitely been bitten by the performance bug — not that it matters much in the long term, for a hybrid.

*

By the time March rolls around, Blaine has love and relationships on the brain, but not because he'd had a Valentine of his own. Instead of going on dates, he's watching the news intently — _everyone_ is, especially at Dalton, because the entire state of Ohio is suddenly buzzing about the possibility of full marriage rights for hybrids. 

The lawsuit is officially filed on Valentine’s Day, on behalf of three couples in Cleveland: two hybrid-hybrid couples and one human-hybrid. A _human-hybrid_ couple, an actual couple that loves each other so much that they want to spend the rest of their lives together. Not just illicit sex, not just a joke, but _marriage_. Blaine knows that couples like that exist, but they’re few and far between in small town Ohio. He looks at them curiously, examining the images on the computer and TV screens. They stand together, clutching each other’s hands and arms, united and defiant, proud despite what they must _know_ people are saying about them. It makes something in his chest ache.

The HSSC is suddenly abuzz with activity, and subscription to their email newsletter triples. There’s a host of information to push out: what’s already happened and what happens next, the process of taking a lawsuit from complaint to trial, and how they can help — because there are already plans in the works.

Mr. Hummel is full of excitement about what they can do, about harnessing the power of the students. They’re not going to protest — Mr. Hummel doesn’t want to put any minors in danger — but, he says, they’re going to make their voices _heard_. They’re going to take to social media and get all the students who are over eighteen to sign petitions and they’re going to write letters, letters to the court and the judge and the editors of all the newspapers in the state. And Blaine’s waiting patiently to find out who’s going to be heading up all that writing, because he _definitely_ wants to participate, when Mr. Hummel looks at him and smiles. “Blaine, now that the library’s up and running, you’ve got some bandwidth, right? How would you like to organize the letter-writing campaign?”

Blaine startles a little as the words sink in. “Me?”

Mr. Hummel chuckles. “Yes, you.”

“But I’m — only a freshman,” Blaine sputters. “I mean… surely someone else —” He gestures around at the other volunteers who, for their parts, aren’t looking at him like he’s being completely embarrassing. They really are going to make great teachers and therapists and counselors some day.

“Blaine,” Mr. Hummel says patiently, “I know how deeply you care about this issue. You’re a natural leader, and I think you’re a perfect fit for this.”

The assessment is something that Blaine very much wants to question — _a natural leader_? — but he’s already blurted out enough in front of the rest of the group. “I… would love to. Thank you, Mr. Hummel.”

“Great!” Mr. Hummel exclaims. “Why don’t you put together a plan, and we’ll discuss it at your next shift? Okay, newsletter group, let’s discuss what’s going out next.”

Blaine’s learned enough from the library project that he comes to his next shift with ideas: he’ll research the newspapers that they should write to, compile address lists including the court, draft letters for people to use as a framework if they aren’t sure where to start. They’ll set up scheduled times when students and faculty can drop in and help, whether it’s for five minutes or an hour. The HSSC will stock all the supplies, the envelopes and the stamps, and will be responsible for mailing out the finished letters. “And,” Blaine adds, flushed with excitement and enthusiasm, “I think we should mail the letters out in one big batch, or deliver them, but take pictures of them first to post on social media or put in the newsletter. Oh! Speaking of the newsletter, we should have paper copies available for people who come in to write.”

Mr. Hummel is positively _beaming_ at him when he finishes outlining his ideas. “Blaine, this is fantastic. I _knew_ you were just the right person for this. I’m so proud of you.” 

After a weeks of planning and promotion and a month of scheduled letter-writing events, two a week, there are over five hundred letters to seal into their envelopes and sort into boxes. The letters to the editor have been submitted as they were completed, and the one that were published are taped up on the wall. Blaine looks up from the envelope he’s moistening with a plastic bottle that feeds into a sponge at all of it, all that they’ve done, and he can’t help a grin.

“It’s amazing, what you’ve managed to accomplish,” Mr. Hummel says from across the table, clearly catching his expression. “You did a fantastic thing here, Blaine. You should be very proud.” It’s just the two of them working on this last step. Mr. Hummel hadn’t seemed to mind — he’d just asked, amused, if no one else had wanted to join in on the fun of sealing shut hundreds of envelopes. Blaine’s reply was a guilty _I guess not_ , because the truth was that he hadn’t tried very hard to find volunteers. Kieran had originally offered to help, after overhearing a conversation between Blaine and Mr. Hummel, but he was swamped with a senior project and had to back out. As for everyone else, well — Blaine just hadn’t really gotten around to asking. Really.

Blaine presses the envelope shut, smiling even bigger even though he tries to keep it in check. “I just can’t believe how enthusiastic everyone was. I never thought we’d get over five hundred letters written.”

“Because of _you_ , Blaine,” Mr. Hummel presses him. “They were enthusiastic because _you_ were enthusiastic. You’re the one who got everyone in here.”

“You helped,” Blaine protests, his face hot from the praise. 

“With _ideas_ ,” Mr. Hummel says. “And even most of those were yours. You’re the one who went out and got people here. This campaign was successful because of you. Thank you.”

His voice is serious, and he tilts his head, waiting until Blaine looks up from the letter he’s folding, and their eyes meet. Blaine lets his shoulders slump in defeat. He smiles shyly. “You’re welcome.” 

Mr. Hummel nods, and they both go back to work. For a few moments, there’s just rustling paper and the muffled thumps of letters dropping into boxes, until Blaine clears his throat and says, “I should be thanking you too, Mr. Hummel. We wouldn’t have been able to do all of this without you bringing the idea to life.”

“It’s too important _not_ to.” Mr. Hummel finishes up one bundle of letters and reaches for another. “Especially for us here at the HSSC.”

Blaine mulls that over for a moment. “Mr. Hummel, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” he replies easily, glancing across the table. “What is it?”

“Why do you…” Blaine pauses, because the word he wants to use is _care_ , but that sounds so callous. He tries to retrieve it and come at the question from a different angle. “I mean, you’ve done _so_ much, and not just with the planning. I feel like half of the staff and faculty letters came from you. I mean, you’re — you’re —”

“Human?” Mr. Hummel supplies, smiling.

Blaine colors a little at being so transparent. “Well… yeah.”

Mr. Hummel grabs another letter to fold, as he says, thoughtfully, “Blaine, no person should be denied the right to marry another person who they love. All the bans on hybrid marriage were rushed hastily into law when most people didn’t even understand how hybrid physiology really worked. They thought you were just glorified house pets, but we know now that’s not true. Hybrids are _people_. You have the full mental capacity of any human being, and the ability to love and consent to marriage. It’s _wrong_ to deny that.” Mr. Hummel seals shut the envelope that he’s working on, but he _doesn’t_ reach for another, looking Blaine full in the face as he goes on, his eyes blazing. “Look at history! It wasn’t that long ago that white people couldn’t marry black people, that equal marriage rights were denied for gay and lesbian couples. That was wrong, and this is wrong too.” 

Blaine feels — well, his chest feels tight, his stomach fluttery, his eyes full. He’s not sure why it means so much, but it means _so much_ to hear it. “Thank you,” he chokes out.

He can sense that Mr. Hummel is trying to rein himself in, to compose himself. “You’re welcome, Blaine. Don’t ever think that there aren’t humans who care, or who understand. At least as much as we can.”

“What do you mean?” Blaine asks. He goes back to work, folding sharp creases into the next letter, trying to regain his own composure.

There’s a pause. For a few seconds, Blaine isn’t sure that Mr. Hummel isn’t going to answer, but when glances surreptitiously across, he sees that Mr. Hummel just looks like he’s deep in thought. “Even though marriage equality was granted to gay and lesbian couples when I was very young,” he starts, “it didn’t mean that being gay was widely accepted — especially in small-town Ohio. I came out when I was a sophomore, and for two years, I was the only openly gay student in school. And I paid the price.”

Blaine’s heart pounds. He doesn’t know what to _say_ , but it feels like he should say something. He settles on, “I’m so sorry.” He tries his best to ignore the tiny, mutinous corner of his brain that’s rejoicing in the fact that Mr. Hummel is gay, because he knows that this is about so much more than that, and Mr. Hummel is in his twenties anyway. (But, the corner repeats, he _is_!)

“Thank you, Blaine,” Mr. Hummel replies. “It was a long time ago now, and it did help me become the person I am today, but at the same time, I don’t want other kids to have to go through the same kind of bullying to find themselves. Which is why, when my original career plans didn’t work out, I realized pretty quickly that what I wanted to do instead was help other students who might be in the same situation. Or —” he gives a rueful smile “—help make the world a better place so those situations don’t have to happen at all. But I suppose that’s a pretty lofty goal.”

Blaine smiles back. “Well, I mean…” He gestures at the letters around them, the boxes. “This is the kind of thing that’s going to help make the world a better place, right?” It feels strange, to be the one comforting an adult, and comforting _Mr. Hummel_ of all adults, instead of the other way around. 

“I hope so,” Mr. Hummel says, but there’s a dubious undertone to his words. He goes back to folding letters and stuffing envelopes.

Blaine follows suit, and they work in silence for a time. It feels a little more fraught than it had before, a bit uneasy. Mr. Hummel seems like he’s absorbed in his own thoughts, maybe even a bit sad. Blaine squirms a few times in his seat, sure that he doesn’t have the social graces to smooth the situation over. Finally, he can’t stand it anymore, and asks, “So, is this — what you want to be doing, then? Running a student service center?”

Mr. Hummel startles and looks back up, but his face relaxes quickly. “Well, ideally, I’d like to be the head of all student services, whether it’s here or at another school. Dalton does have the best opportunities for blended education in Ohio, but I’d like to the opportunity to bring the services that we offer for human students and hybrid students together, so we can all learn from each other and understand each other better. Wherever I end up, I’ll need to finish my master’s degree first.”

“Are you still in school?” Blaine asks, surprised. Mr. Hummel works full time — probably _more_ than full time, when it’s all said and done.

“I take classes online,” Mr. Hummel explains. “Evenings, weekends…”

“Wow,” Blaine says. “That must keep you busy.”

Mr. Hummel chuckles, but it doesn’t sound like there’s a lot of humor in it. “It certainly does. This job practically fell into my lap, though, and it’s exactly what I was looking for, so I didn’t want to let the opportunity pass me by.”

“Well, I’m glad you took it,” Blaine blurts out. He blushes furiously, but hides it by standing to grab one of the boxes and move it to the floor. 

“I am too,” Mr. Hummel replies, and they exchange a quick smile when Blaine straightens back up. Then they get back to work.

*

The end of the school year seems to careen down the tracks at Blaine with no brakes. There are tests to study for and papers to write, and the Warblers rehearse and perform an end-of-year recital in lieu of going to Nationals. It’s fun, but it’s a poor substitute. 

The HSSC is suddenly a hotbed of activity, because the hybrid marriage equality case is finally before the court. They publish updates several times per day, keeping the school up to date on the arguments, the protesters, the press conferences. And suddenly, it’s time for the decision to come down. 

Blaine rushes to the HSSC after his classes are done, and finds it packed with students, mostly hybrid, but not entirely. He hears someone shouting his name, and catches sight of Mr. Hummel waving to him from the other side of the room, where a TV on a cart has been set up for the occasion. Blaine makes his way through the crowd, returning greetings and showing anxious crossed fingers as he goes. 

“No word yet?” he asks as he reaches Mr. Hummel and the cluster of volunteers around him.

“Not yet,” Mr. Hummel says, “but it should be any minute.”

Blaine is nervous. He’s extremely nervous, and if things go the wrong way, he knows he’s going to feel partially responsible, like he didn’t get Dalton to send enough letters or they didn’t say the right things. He bounces on his toes and looks at the TV, which is playing a talk show on mute, the world going on as usual as though this isn’t one of the most important days in Blaine’s young life. Conversation swirls around Blaine, but he doesn’t really take part in it, just smiles and nods like he’s paying rapt attention.

The news breaks on social media, so it’s someone in the middle of the room with their phone out who knows the outcome first. There’s a shout, then a murmur, and then, finally, cheers. Blaine swivels quickly back to the television, and there it is in scrolling text across the bottom of the screen: the decision is in, and the ban is unconstitutional, and hybrids — at least in Ohio — can marry whoever they want. Clerks in several counties across the state are keeping their offices open later than usual to grant marriage licenses.

Inexplicably, Blaine feels like crying. He knows that the letters from Dalton didn’t really have any impact on the decision, and he’s only almost-sixteen and it’s not like he has anyone to marry even if he were old enough, but it just means… everything. Or at least a step in the direction of everything, where legally, he and everyone like him will be recognized as the people that they are, and maybe someday, everyone will treat hybrids the same as they do anyone else. And maybe, just maybe, some day, there won’t be any more catboys bleeding on the pavement and absorbing kick after kick with their bruising ribs.

Everyone is screaming and high-fiving and hugging, but Blaine feels strangely removed from it all, even though Morgan, a junior HSSC volunteer, grabs him in an exuberant hug the moment the news becomes clear. Blaine is frozen, separated by the gravity he’s feeling in the face of everyone’s exuberance. He stays still, his hands clutched to his face, until the sound of his own name cuts through the buzzing in his ears. It’s Mr. Hummel, who takes Blaine’s shoulder in a firm grip and looks carefully into his eyes. “Blaine! Are you okay?”

Blaine nods, and blinks, and suddenly he _is_ crying. Mr. Hummel gives him a watery smile and shouts, “Congratulations!” over all the noise, then he pulls Blaine in, and hugs him with strong arms. Blaine clings, unable to do anything else, sniffling into Mr. Hummel’s shoulder, the scent of him going in deep. It shocks a sudden purr out of him — happiness or self-comfort, he doesn’t know — and an unexpected furl of heat and flutters in his stomach. “Congratulations,” Mr. Hummel says again, low, and Blaine’s ear brushes over his cheek as it swivels toward Mr. Hummel’s mouth. 

“Thank you,” Blaine whispers, briefly tightening his grip — his fingers curling harder into Mr. Hummel’s shoulder and his arm — before it’s all over, much too soon. Mr. Hummel pulls back, still gripping Blaine’s shoulders, and he _beams_ into Blaine’s face at close range, and his face is flushed and his eyes are bright, and the idea of being close enough to kiss him shakes Blaine like he’s a mouse in the mouth of a real cat. The room is spinning so fast, so fast, and then Mr. Hummel lets him go completely and turns to someone else. To hug someone else. 

Blaine knows that he has to do the same, that otherwise it’s going to be strange. He spins, and catching sight of Thad and Trent near the food table, hurries away. He’s barely paying attention as they crow and exchange quick, one-armed hugs. Because he knows now, without a shadow of a doubt, that he doesn’t have a crush on Mr. Hummel at all. No, instead, he’s completely in love.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! [Reblog on tumblr](http://luckiedee.tumblr.com/post/120217424272/blended-education-1-4-klaine-fic-wip).


End file.
